Behind the Fence at Santa's Village

The summer I turned 17 I got a job at Santa’s Village. I had never been to the aging children’s theme park when I sat for my interview, but it was close to home and a staple in Chicago-land’s history.  I didn’t know what to expect, so I was honest and candid and eventually got a job. In the barn.

I had no idea what “the barn” was, other than we wore bluish green shirts instead of the red or yellow shirts like other departments. But I soon learned that working in the barn meant arriving 2 hours earlier than any other crew, and that I would need a change of clothes each day.  Those 2 hours were spent mucking stalls, picking hooves and feeding a variety of animals. I loved it.

Friendships were forged and life-long memories were secured. Some of those memories I will share with you today, others will travel with me through life and into my grave.

Shadow was the big horse, as constant as the sun, strong, kind, and graceful. He died eating a plastic bag filled with left-over vendor food that had been carelessly tossed beyond the dumpster and into the enclosure.

The day I saw his body laying in the barn was surreal. I walked toward him, and Debbi the barn manager kneeling in the muck beside him. Mario was what I saw, a white mule we had lost some months previous.  My conscience would not allow my mind to accept that Shadow was dead. On the faded red and cracked fiberglass picnic table, Debbi and I cried. My eyes didn’t dry for days.

I saw Star being born. She’s a beautiful yellow pony born to Muppet & our barn-house stallion, Captain. She was born in the middle of a busy day in the park; a father with several small children approached me because something wrong with our pony. It was Muppet. And then there was Star. I was with her the whole time, and it was amazing.

Muppet is featured in another memory at the Village.  She and Cracker Jack were pulling a sled on a set of tracks when he was spooked and took off. Muppet went along for the ride because she had to, she was harnassed to him. With the two of them in front, the sled jumped the track and tipped over a 4’ wall onto the concrete below.

Several of the sled’s passengers went to the ER, and one, on a summer day at an amusement park with her grandchildren, died from head trauma.

I saw that too. I had nightmares for months, probably longer.

That ride never opened again, and Cracker Jack was sold. Fortunately for him, he went to a place with pastures and proper horse care. They didn’t get that at the Village.

The female goats, and all their spring kids, roamed the barnyard freely during the day and feasted on the cups of corn and grain the children purchased. They had a decent life, but it was a different story for Billy, the father of those kids, and all the other unfortunate males that were kept in tact. Their small pens were cleaned regularly and they were fed well, but they never got to stretch their legs. Ever.

There was Captain the stallion pony, Billy the goat, and Ali. Ali the llama. Ali the asshole.

To Ali’s credit, I too would be an asshole if I had a life like he did.

He was a spitter; there were LARGE signs on the front of his enclosure that warned people to not feed him, but they did. And then he spit on them.

One day a man was feeding him Pringles. Ali loved them, and I warned the man several times that he needed to stop, but he didn’t listen, so I enjoyed watching the green goo slide down his face.

No one liked to clean Ali’s pen because as soon as you began, he’d spit, kick, and in any other way possible share his misery with the closest victim. I got that, and I felt sorry for him. So I regularly cleaned his pen. Then, one day, he didn’t want to be mean to me any more, but Ali being nice was what landed me in the hospital.

Apparently llamas are a bit aggressive in the bedroom, which for a llama is the mountains (very romantic, don’t you think?). The male RAMS the female against the side of a rock face, and when she is delirious and helpless, has his way with her and moves on. No cuddling. No thank you. No child support.

Ali liked me. And if it hadn’t been for my then boyfriend Kris and the pitchfork in his hand, I can only imagine how the scenario would have played out, but in the end (thanks to that pitchfork) I got out of that enclosure with only a sprained elbow and deeply bruised buttocks. I couldn’t sit for weeks.

A lot of memories and facebook friends have come from my time at the Village. Recently I learned that the property had been sold and the animals, rides and Santa’s house had all been auctioned off.

I hope Star has found those pastures. And Ali his mountain range.

The Last Chicken

Once upon a time this was to be the title of my autobiography .. . The Last Chicken and other stories of a life gone wrong.

I've found a different title. A better title. You can check it out at Borders in a few years. Until then, it's the Last Chicken.

When I was 8, the summer I turned 9, my mother moved us out of the single-wide trailer where I shared a bedroom with my older brother, into a century old farm house with 5 bedrooms and 2 staircases. It was on a 750 acre farm, complete with livestock and no neighbors. It was a stretch for a couple of white-trash trailer park kids, but we adapted.

We adapted by pulling out a package of permanent markers and writing every swere word we had ever heard (and thought we could spell) on the interior walls of the tool shed. What we were thinking, I have no idea. What I do know is that the day it was discovered was also the day I learned my paternal grandmother had died. We weren't particularly close, she was bipolar and scared me, but still. I was 8.

My brother, 2 1/2 years older and a product of my mothers first marriage, did most of the sanding. I tried, but I wasn't very strong, and I was in shock. Shocked that the words were found. Shocked they "assumed" it had been us. Shocked at the first experience of human death. Normally my brother beat me up. That day he held me up.

There are many stories that came from the 1 1/2 years of living on the farm. Some of them are cherished childhood memories. It was the first time I had a family. A mom, a father-figure, and a home without wheels. (Not only did it not have wheels, it had a basement!) But to the title. Ahhh, the title.

I mentioned that there were no neighbors, but that is less than truthful. About 1/2 mile north was where Bruce lived. (I don't remember his name, but from the picture I have in my head, he looks like a Bruce.) Than 1/4 mile South was the family with the dog. There were four boys, all unruly, and their dog. A black lab that was also unruly. But I loved dogs. After we moved onto the farm we had to give away our cocker spaniel. Our new "dad" wouldn't let her in the house, and after an Illinois winter in a dog house, my mother finally decided she'd be better off elsewhere. I digress . . . the neighbors dog terrorized Jim, the farmer. She would chase the steer (muscle makes the meat tough), the ducks and chickens, and dug holes. He hated her. I loved her.

Jim decided to leave hog farming and try his hand at raising chickens. They started off in a small building with heat lamps and eventually moved into the large, open hog barn. It had a dirt floor and aluminum sides. Real basic.

In the evening I would feed the chicks. They had just started to feather and were leaving the "cute" stage. It was fowl puberty and not pretty... One particular evening, I made my way back to the newly renovated chicken barn; I opened the single door and stared. I stared at a carpet of chickens. All laying there. On the dirt. Lifeless. Broken necks. Every. Single. One.

And then I saw her. All wags and happy to see me. Immediately I could see how she got in; she had dug a hole in the dirt under the aluminum siding. As she ran toward me I saw, from the corner of my eye, the last chicken. It had survived. It was not a victim to the playful antics of an over-sized puppy. It was no squeak toy. It was a survivor.

I grab the dog by her collar and watched the chicken, the last chicken, dart across the barnyard. Running from the terror of the dog. Running. Running. Running right into Mulvy. The cat. No more chickens.

All dead.

I was in shock. I was 9 and not a farmer. I was a trailer-trash girl that, within the year, began a lifetime of vegetarianism.  I held the dog. I screamed. I cried. I didn't know what to do or what would be done. I started to stumble towards the house, holding the dog who didn't understand. She still wanted to play.

My mom came out first. Through my sobs, my pointing and the presence of the dog, she put it together. By then Jim had come out. I think I remember a look. A look between the two of them, and she told me to go inside to my room. She'd be there in a minute.

My other was never the "cuddly" type. I was. Still am. That night, shortly after I went to my room, my mother jumped on my bed and started piling the blankets and pillows, stuffed animals and anything else within reach on top of us. She held me. Tight.

Bang. No more dog. All dead.

It was a few days later that I overheard the discussion of the dog's head. Apparently she had bitten Jim. (He was 6'7" and I doubt he leaned much while leading her to the field where the deed was done.) The neighbors couldn't prove she was up to date on her rabies, and the only way to check was through the brain. So she had to be decapitated. It was a conversation I could have gone a lifetime without hearing.

And that was the last chicken. I can tell that story now, 25 years later, and almost laugh. More because it's seems so surreal. Did that really happen? Do those things really happen? The damn bird survived when hundreds of others didn't, and for what? To be eaten by a barn cat?

I think my brother had to clean up the carcasses.